


Tribute

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Also Gerry does not participate in the noncon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Asexual Character, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gerry lives AU, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, I promise, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Objectification, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Sort of? - Freeform, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, Violence, and/or feared, au where the entities are known and openly worshipped, explicit rape/noncon, post-something, until then Jon will not be having a good time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s said that there was a time when most people didn’t know about the Entities, the dark Gods and their domains. They say there was a time when they were weaker, hungrier, harder to appease.The Archive is a shrine to the Eye, a way to give tribute and curry favor. It is also a way to vent one’s frustration.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Gerard Keay, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It’s said that there was a time when most people didn’t know about the Entities, the dark Gods and their domains. They say there was a time when they were weaker, hungrier, harder to appease. That something happened to make the world Know. Gerry’s not sure he believes it, but if it’s true it was probably the Eye lot’s fault. Maybe in the beforetimes the Magnus Institute was a joke, the Archives considered a place for lunatics and phonies and amateur novelists desperate for an audience. It’s known that until recently, the Archives were a place. 

Now the Archive is a person. People come from all over to give tribute, to worship and appease the Ceaseless Watcher. To beg for its protection, or its boons. Sometimes they even get what they want.

The shrine courtyard is beautiful, Gerry supposes. Elegantly paved and lined with trees and flowers and stone reading benches, each with a little golden plaque dedicating it to a former Institute head. Magnus has apparently always been a vain prick. 

Maybe he should appreciate it more, having seen the Desolate Fields--once beautiful, now scorched and scarred and scattered with the ashes of sacrifices. Anything should be pleasant next to breathing the acrid smoke of a hundred thousand precious possessions burnt in hopes of appeasing the Lightless Flame. 

The oppressive air ruins it. At the heart of the Institute, the Eye’s gaze presses in from all sides. 

The shrine at the center is beautiful, too, or at least it’s supposed to be. An elegant marble structure that Gerry thinks looks more like an open mausoleum than anything. As he gets closer, he can see it’s lined inside with an intricate mosaic. Closer still, and he can see that they are mirrors.

The Archive sits up from his nest of emerald silks and cushions. It looks almost luxurious. Almost comfortable. 

If it were really that good, the Archive wouldn’t be bound.

The shackles at the Archive’s wrists and ankles are polished to a sheen that makes Gerry feel sick. The chains may be golden, and long enough to move relatively freely, but they are still chains. The raw, chafed bands on the Archive’s scarred skin still look painful. 

Gerry thinks he hates it here the most. The artifice of civility, when the best that can be said for the Institute is that _most_ of its savagery is second-hand. 

He kneels at the shrine. The cushion there is clean but old and nearly worn-through. The stuffing barely keeps his knees off the cold, smooth marble beneath. He’s sort of surprised that he seems to be taller than the Archive.

The Archive is very beautiful, clean and well-groomed, his beard short and neat, his hair long and elegantly braided. Faint points of light glow beneath the silk of his golden blindfold. It’s said that the Archive still has eyes, but they are much too terrible to look upon. No doubt they’d burn Gerry’s eyes out of his head, or show him a thousand terrible truths at once and leave him gibbering, or some other eldritch bullshit. It’s just as likely to be symbolic pageantry turned folk legend. 

His face is also terribly scarred. Every inch of him that Gerry can see seems scarred. Round little burrow-holes in clusters up his neck and face, a pale slice across his throat and one at his lower lip. A shiny burn that engulfs most of his right hand. 

The Archive turns his face up to Gerry’s. He can feel the weight of those eyes on him and knows the Archive can see him just fine.

“...Gerard Keay,” the Archive says, surprisingly uncertain. Shy, almost, and rough-voiced as though from sleep. 

“Yeah,” Gerry replies, for lack of anything intelligent to say. 

“I’ve heard of you,” the Archive says. 

“All good things, I’m sure,” Gerry says wryly. The Archive actually cracks a tiny smile. 

“Yes, actually. I had a woman tell me you saved her life in Italy.” 

“I’m sure she was exaggerating.”

“She wasn’t. You knew she was marked by the Lonely and you told her to remember her mother. She would have been lost if not for you.”

The Archive is a lot more talkative than Gerry expected. Not that he minds, it’s just. A lot different than he’s been led to believe. 

“You’re surprisingly chatty for a library.”

The Archive’s face sours. 

“There is a _significant_ difference between a _library_ and an _archive_.”

“Now, pedantry, _that_ I did expect.” 

The Archive crosses his arms. 

“I was told you’d be a prick.”

“Shine wear off already? I’m wounded. All the other haunted libraries think I’m dead charming.”

The Archive snorts. That tiny smile tugs again at the corner of his scarred mouth and Gerry doesn’t know what to make of the way it makes him feel. 

The Archive squirms a little. Anxious, maybe, definitely excited. 

“What, ah. What have you brought me?” That little smile grows into an eager grin. “I’m quite interested to hear what you have to tell me.”

He ends up giving more or less his life story. His upbringing, his days of chasing down Leitners to appease his mother. The story of her transformation, and how the last Archivist freed him from her. 

“And I suppose she was,” Gerry finishes, finally. “The _last_ Archivist.”

Gerry doesn’t feel better. Actually he feels sort of worse. Raw and fresh. Vulnerable. He supposes that’s how the Archive keeps the Eye fed. It has to make sure the secondhand misery keeps on being misery. 

The Archive sits back and sighs, like someone who has just had a long and satisfying meal. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, a little smile playing at his mouth. “It’s been a long time since someone told me something I actually wanted to hear.”

“Nice to hear my traumatic childhood entertained you,” Gerry snaps. He still feels sore and exposed. The Archive flinches, and he immediately feels like kind of a dick, too.

“o-Oh, I’m. I’m sorry,” The Archive stammers. His elegant hands tremble. 

“Do you want to…?” 

He fumbles the tie of his robe open, at first revealing a shock of bare skin and the curve of a breast. Gerry’s kind of disgusted, at first. Does the Archive get off on it that much? 

But then there are. Marks. Bruises. 

Bites. Finger marks. What looks like a cluster of cigarette burns on the Archive’s thigh. 

“What.” Gerry says, flatly. He doesn’t even know where to begin. 

“I--I’ve upset you. You could, er, hit me instead, if you wanted?”

Oh, okay. That’s _worse?_ The Archive does understand that’s worse, right?

“Do people usually do that?” 

The Archive squirms and turns his face away. 

“I’m told it makes them feel better.” He lets the robe fall away completely. His ribs are bruised and there’s a patch of dried spunk inside one thigh. He parts his legs, and Gerry doesn’t look between them.

“I’ll heal, if it makes you more comfortable. These are from today—they’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

The marks all look at least a week old, sure, but that doesn’t make it _better_. 

The Archive bites his lip. He looks anxious. 

“You don’t _have_ to. I’m told it helps.”

He feels sick. And angry. And bitter. And all kinds of ugly things he can’t quite pick apart just now. 

“...there’s a book.”

The Archive tilts his head. His brows furrow. 

“What?”

“You want to do something for me? There’s a book, _Salt and Bone_ , do you know it?” 

The Archive sits back, pulls his robes up around himself with shaking hands. 

“I—yes. It looks like a cookbook but it’s Flesh, a-and a bit Spiral, as well. Completely uninspired, I think, but it is _very_ effective.” 

The Archive tells him many things he knew, and many more that he did not. He knew not to read it, or touch it, but even reading the title is apparently enough to trigger its effects. Something to do with seasoning, Gerry thinks, but the witnesses haven’t exactly been coherent in that regard. The Archive sends him out with a detailed description of the back cover, which does _not_ trigger the effects, and advice to drown the damned thing into pulp and dump it in the Thames. He’d been hoping for a bit of a boon, desperate for a touch of luck, and instead the Archive has most likely saved his life. 

The image of bites and bruises lingers behind Gerry’s eyes all the way back through what is still mostly Chelsea. The way the Archive had offered himself. What had he said?

 _I’ve upset you,_ and _I’m told it helps._ Told by who? Probably the Beholding types that run that place. Bastards and cowards. Voyeurs in a very real sense. Magnus probably likes to watch too much to stop it. And, he knows with a sick certainty, there will be nothing anyone can do once Magnus has decided on how things in his stronghold are done. 

Gerry promises himself not to go back, no matter how desperate he gets. He’ll go back to the Desolate Fields or the Marina or the Peak instead. Chucking an evil book into the Vast for the Fairchilds to play with usually earns a favor. Or at least some good weed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: Gerry is bad at keeping promises to himself lol


	2. Chapter 2

An old woman lays flowers in front of him. Bows her head low in supplication and reverently places stark white roses at the offering plate. 

The Archive hates that they think he wants their offerings. Hates that they think he wants  _ any _ of this. 

Hates that they’re not wrong. 

He can’t help the hunger that brings him closer, raises him up to attention. She’s so deeply marked by the Stranger that she  _ smells  _ of it—for her, sticky floors and fluorescent lights and empty eyes. He can feel the story sitting behind her eyes, caught behind her teeth, and he wants it so badly he has to clench his hands in his robe to stop them trembling. 

She thanks him after.  _ Thanks _ him. She thinks he has done her some favor, graciously granted her an audience. A few nights of hellish nightmares will cure her of that. But perhaps she already knows, and has chosen this. 

The next woman weeps all through it. She’s written hers, and her hands are shaking when she places the papers before him. He barely has to touch them to read her story, to tell it aloud and bare one of her worst secrets. She’s afraid the people waiting can hear it. They cannot, but she is right to fear eavesdroppers in the Ceaseless Watcher’s sanctum.

He thanks her, when he is done, and she slaps him. Once, and then again when she realizes she won’t be stopped. Again, and again until her hand stings too badly to continue. Calls him  _ monster _ . She thinks he’s enjoyed it, and she’s right. He deserves the stinging in his cheeks. 

The Archive is relatively lucky until sometime after noon. There has only been one other statement, a young man who is losing the ability to see the faces of those he loves, beginning with the birth of his daughter. The Archive’s mouth still tastes of bitter despair and the acid tang of predatory Madness.

Then they come in. Three men, coworkers in the same dreary office pool and close friends since childhood. They’ve just got off work for the day. One of them has come to make a statement. One has come to support him. One has come because he’s heard of the kind of things someone can get away with here.

When the statement is finished, the Archive lets himself hope that will be the end of things. Allows himself to relax and enjoy the sated feeling he gets from an especially fresh story. 

“Ugh,” the largest says. “It  _ likes _ it.” His name is Malcolm, and he hates looking at something pretending to be human, relishes the thought of taking one down a peg and getting his cock wet in the process. 

They are on him in barely a minute. He squirms but their hands are strong and even though Kevin has reservations he’s more than willing to support his friends as they’ve supported him.

“I don’t know, looks too much like a bloke to me.”

Malcolm laughs. “Come on, it’s  _ not _ . It’s not even a person, look at it.” His rough hand turns the Archive’s face towards Kevin, throwing him off balance and wrenching his neck. The other hand keeps wriggling his fingers inside the Archive. “Not pretty enough for you? It’s got a nice enough pussy.” 

David is especially angry that the Archive enjoyed his friend’s trauma. His hands are the roughest of all, and when Malcolm drives his prick much too fast into the Archive and makes him cry out, David scolds him.

“Shut up,” he snarls, “Stupid little monster, I bet you love this.”

He mashes the Archive’s face against his thigh and takes himself in hand. Drags the head along the Archive’s cheeks until he’s thoroughly stained.

“Thank me,” he snarls, and the Archive whimpers. He doesn’t want to open his mouth. David shakes him by the hair, slaps him on his already bruised cheek. 

“ _ Thank me. _ ” 

The Archive swallows thickly. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles. 

“You can do better than that.”

“Thank you for letting me suck your cock.” 

He fucks the Archive’s throat so brutally that the Archive is glad there hasn’t been much of anything but tea in his stomach in months. So brutally that the Archive is sure he tastes blood, that his jaw aches and his lips sting and seed comes out of his nose when David finishes.

He thinks he can just about get through this. He’s had worse. He deserves worse. As soon as Malcolm is done, they’ll probably leave, and the Archive can rest. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries to relax through the dry drag of Malcolm’s cock in him. 


End file.
